"Why did I marry him? I don't know; for the reason that hundreds of ignorant inexperienced girls marry, I suppose. My home wasn't a happy one. I was miserable, and oh,—restless. I wonder if men know what it feels like to be restless? Some times I think they can't even guess. John wanted me very badly—nobody wanted me at home particularly. There didn't seem to be any point in my life. Do you understand ? . . . . Of course being alone with him in that little camp in that silent plain"—she shuddered—"made things worse. My nerves went all to pieces. Everything he said—his voice—his accent—his walk—the way he ate—irritated me so that I longed to rush out sometimes and shriek—and go mad. Does it sound ridiculous to you to be driven mad by such trifles? I only know I used to get up from the table sometimes and walk up and down outside, with both hands over my mouth to keep myself quiet. And all the time I hated myself—how I hated myself! I never had a word from him that wasn't gentle and tender. I believe he loved the ground I walked on. Oh, it is awful to be loved like that, when you——" She drew in her breath with a sob. "I—I—it made me sick for him to come near me—to touch me." She stopped a moment.
Broomhurst gently laid his hand on her quivering one. "Poor little girl!" he murmured.
"Then you came," she said, "and before long I had another feeling to fight against. At first I thought it couldn't be true that I loved you—it would die down. I think I was frightened at the feeling; I didn't know it hurt so to love any one."
Broomhurst stirred a little. "Go on," he said tersely.
"But it didn't die," she continued in a trembling whisper, "and the other awful feeling grew stronger and stronger—hatred; no, that is not the word—loathing for—for—John. I fought against
